Home for the Holidays
by ArtisticRainey
Summary: This is the story of a certain Christmas, when a certain someone is caught up in a certain spot of bother, which causes others a certain amount of concern for certain others.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Home for the Holidays

**Author:** ArtisticRainey

**Summary:** This is the story of a certain Christmas, when a certain someone is caught up in a certain spot of bother, which causes others a certain amount of concern for certain others.

**Notes:** There are elements in this story that I've taken artistic licence with, such as places, relations, and names, as we know little about the Tracy family's pre-International Rescue life. These elements are purely fanonical and should not be construed as canon in any way. Thanks go to Tikatu for beta and advice, and for prodding me to actually post something instead of leaving it to fester on my hard-drive for another two years…

The summer had disappeared as quickly as a plate of cookies near my boys, and before I knew it, it was the twenty-fourth of December. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel in time with an upbeat, modern Christmas tune as I drove home from Topeka, where the head office of my successful aeronautical engineering company, _Tracy Construction and Aerospace_, was located. The busy lights of a thriving city braced for last minute Christmas shoppers gave way to sprawling fields, now frozen and bare under the moonlight. Even in the barren winter, Kansas was still beautiful to me. Farmhouse windows glinted like stars in my wing mirror, and the road turned shimmering gold as I drove onwards. I knew the beauty of the land during the summer, too, when the slender wheat stalks waved like gentle fingers in the warm winds and the fields of sunflowers stretched to the horizon. I knew all its splendour. Kansas had always been my home.

The lights of Andersonville, the town where we lived at that time, came into view quicker than usual. I had left the office early as it was Christmas Eve, but there was another reason why I wanted to get home with haste: my boys were, at last, coming home.

The house had been emptier for some months after Scott, my eldest at twenty-one years of age, left for his final year at Yale. He was already talking of doing a master's degree at Oxford, and as much as it would pain me to see my son leave the country, there was no way I was going to stop him. My second eldest, Virgil, who was eighteen, had left to attend the Denver School of Advanced Technology. The boy had spent most of his childhood with a screwdriver in one hand and a technical manual in the other; there was no doubt that the DSAT was the right place for him. Only my three youngest were left at home with me.

In the week leading up to Christmas, I began to think we lived in a junkyard instead of a house. I was working longer hours to clear my desk so I could take the week long vacation I had been hoping for. That meant I wasn't at home to supervise the Christmas decorating. To this day, I'm still surprised that the boys didn't blow up the house right then. My third born son, John -- who had just turned sixteen at the time -- for all his brains, didn't have much common sense. On the day he was born, my father took one look at him and said, "That boy is destined for greatness." Then again, he said that about them all. Somehow the trick of putting together a plastic Christmas tree eluded John. In retrospect, it wasn't smart to put him in charge. I still can't understand how they got tinsel stuck in the dishwasher. And I don't want to know. Thankfully Patty-Ann Simmons, the lady from next door who always struck me as a 'Mrs Santa Claus' figure, sensed the problem. In a snap the tree was up, we had light-up snowmen in the garden, and the house smelled like gingerbread and cinnamon. Life was in some semblance of order by the time Christmas Eve rolled around, and Scott and Virgil were due to arrive home.

The low moon peeked out from behind the silvered clouds as I pulled into the driveway of our house. Four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a family lounge, a den for the kids, a study for me, and an attic, all finished in cream stone with a veranda in front for lazy summer evenings, and a generous garden out back. _Tracy Construction and Aerospace_ had hit the ground running, and I was planning to expand the company under the new name, _Tracy Industries_. I had already started amassing my fortune at that stage, but money was far from my mind as the drive crunched under the car wheels. My boys were coming home.

At the press of a button the garage door opened, and I drove in. I was very glad for our gas central heating, considering that the temperature was set to plummet well below zero. After I turned off the ignition I smacked my forehead and groaned: Patty-Ann's husband had asked me to take a look at their burner; he thought there was something wrong. I had told him it would be better to call a technician, but I made a note to check in the day after Christmas anyway. Richard was widely known as a man who worshipped Murphy's Law; there was probably nothing wrong. I headed into the kitchen: terracotta and peach to offset the honey coloured wood finishing. My artist, Virgil, decorated it all. He liked decorating the rooms as much as he liked painting on canvas. It was a handy trait, considering I never had time to do it myself.

I hummed as I walked out to the hallway, my shoes clicking on the hard floor, and stripped off my heavy coat, hanging it up in the small closet under the stairs among the mass of jackets already there. An assortment of hockey sticks, tennis racquets, and dirty running sneakers were piled up on the floor, and I told myself again that I had to get the boys to tidy up. Who was on cleaning duty that week? I couldn't remember.

As I pulled off my gloves, something that _jingled_ bounded down the staircase.

"Welcome home, Dad!"

The cheerful voice of my second youngest son, the often impetuous and always jovial thirteen-year-old Gordon, greeted me. I smiled. There has always been something very special about that boy; special in the way he brings happiness wherever he goes. I always hoped that his smile would never dim.

"Good evening, son."

I shook my head and laughed as Gordon grinned at me and I realized what the jingling had been. My son was leaning against the banister, dressed normally except for the pair of felt reindeer antlers perched atop his head, complete with tinsel and little gold bells.

"Where did you get those?" I asked as I headed back towards the kitchen. A thud and another jingle told me that Gordon had jumped off the stairs and was following.

"Scotty brought them home for me. Alan got a pair, too."

I stopped and spun around, and Gordon almost banged into my stomach at the unexpected halt.

"Is Scott home already?" I asked. If he were, surely he would have come to greet me…

"Yeah, he arrived a few hours ago. Uncle Harry picked him up from the airport." Good old Harrison, my younger and only brother, who had taken charge of the family farm in my place when I had left to join the Air Force so many moons ago.

"Where is he now?" I asked.

"He and Johnny went to the corner store. They should be back soon," Gordon said.

I nodded. Good, at least one of them was home. I walked on into the kitchen and glanced at the wall clock: six-thirty. Virgil's bus was due to arrive in Topeka any minute, providing it had left on time. I had offered to pick him up from the terminus, but he declined. One of his best friends had offered to drive him home, so he was 'fine'. Well, that suited me. It meant I didn't have to hang around Topeka after work.

I had wondered why Virgil wanted to take the bus for such a long journey in the first place. It was over 400 miles from Denver to Topeka. When I asked, he had told me that after four months of studying planes, a bus would be a more than welcome change of scenery. I guessed that he wouldn't be saying that when he finally got home.

I dug my keys out of my pocket and hung them up with the others, and pulled out my cell phone, checking for new messages. Gordon took a bottle of soda from the fridge and snagged two glasses. Two. That reminded me.

"Where's Alan?" I asked as I loosened my tie.

"In the den. We're playing foosball. We're going to take on Johnny and Scott when they get back," he said with a grin.

"Great." I smiled back at. It was always nice to see my boys getting along.

Gordon collected the glasses and headed back upstairs. I shouted a cursory "Alan, I'm home!" and received the typical "Welcome back, Dad!" I was just about to follow Gordon when I heard laughter. The front door swung open to reveal my lanky towhead, John, wrapped up snugly against the cold, carrying two bulky bags from the corner store, and accompanied by someone I had been looking forward to seeing.

Scott had one arm slung about his brother's shoulders, and he was moving with an ease that he never seemed to lose, no matter how long he was away from home. He gave John a hearty pat on the back, eliciting a grunt from his victim, and strode over to me, his face relaxed in a mercurial grin.

"Hey Dad!" He said as he pulled me in for a quick, rough hug.

"It's good to see you back, Scott," I said. "How is everything? Good, I hope?"

"Same old, same old," he said with a shrug. "I'll tell you all about it when I'm more awake. The news is so boring it'll send even _me_ to sleep!"

The boys divested themselves of their outer clothing. John went into the kitchen, while Scott and I headed into the lounge. We sat down on the comfortable cream sofas - the style and colour chosen by Virgil, of course - that were tinted by the cheerful lights of the Christmas tree, underneath which was a mound of presents for the boys (and me). Scott settled in so quickly it was as if he had never gone away. I always found it amazing that no matter where my boys had been and how long they were gone for, they could always fall back into the family routine. It was comforting.

"It's great to be back, Dad," Scott said with a lopsided grin. "Much as I love Yale, I'll always be willing to come back to Kansas."

We talked -- Scott didn't fall asleep, as he had claimed -- and after a while we fell into companionable silence. Scott seemed content to soak in the atmosphere of home. I could hear John puttering about in the kitchen; bags rustled, and he started putting things away, humming tunelessly as he did. My elder blond was a quirky boy who was quickly growing into a fine young man. He was cheerful and quiet, with a wit that could slice rocks and the patience of several saints – several _thousand_ saints. He wasn't the most sociable teenager to hit Kansas, but he did just fine. He was the definitive big brother for Gordon and Alan, and now that he was the oldest left at home, he was the default 'mom' as well. My wife Lucille, God rest her soul, died long before her time, and I still miss her to this day. We cope; we've always coped. But we never forget.

Scott drew me out of my musing with a soft, "Hey, Dad?" and a wave of his hand.

"Oh. Sorry son. What?" I asked.

"You zoned out there for a minute. Is there anything on your mind?"

"No, no." I waved it off. "I just let my mind run away with itself. So, what were you and John doing at the store?"

"Munchies," Scott said plainly, "for the traditional Christmas Eve vid-a-thon."

"Ah." Eating junk food and watching movie marathons was how we always spent Christmas Eve; sometimes I think we should start up that tradition again. "What are we in for this year?" I asked. "The _Killer Androids from Pluto_ trilogy again, or something from back when I was a kid?"

"Not sure yet," Scott replied. "We have to wait until Virg gets home before we decide. When's he due in, anyway?" Scott glanced at his watch, and I followed suit. Seven.

"Any minute now, I would imagine," I said.

"How's he getting here?" Scott asked, suddenly putting two and two together and discovering that I wasn't picking Virgil up.

"One of his friends is giving him a ride."

"Good." Scott sat back in his seat. "I bet he wouldn't relish another bus ride after coming all the way from Denver. That I-70 can be murder sometimes."

I chuckled. No, he certainly wouldn't.

Just then, John flopped down on one of the comfy armchairs and pulled off his boots, sweeping some hair back from his face. It was reaching his shoulders by then, but it was always tied back.

"John, get a haircut," Scott said automatically.

John heaved a long-suffering sigh and rolled his eyes. I smiled; John was tired of this particular argument, though it never came from me.

"Look, when I get it cut, it grows back within weeks, and it looks stupid. And anyway, it looks cooler like this." He gave an exaggerated flick of his hair.

Scott laughed and glanced over at me. I shrugged. I didn't care what way my boys grew their hair as long as it was suitable for school and work, and _wasn't_ lime green. Scott shook his head and stood up, stretching. He was tired from his own long journey home, it seemed.

"I'm going to go up and check on the other two," he said.

"You just want to whup them at foosball," John said dryly, picking up the televiewer guide.

"We _did_ promise them a game, Johnny," Scott said. John gave a noncommittal 'hmm', but Scott strode over and took hold of the blond ponytail, pulling on it. "C'mon, Johnny-boy. Up-up."

"Scott! Let go!" John tried to swat the offending hand away, but Scott pulled harder. "Scott! Oh, all right, you big kid. Hair pulling, geez…"

Scott laughed victoriously, and John grudgingly got up and made to follow his brother from the room. I coughed and raised an eyebrow.

"Boots, right," he said, knowing the score.

I smiled and thanked him, and he returned the smile in a very wry way as he picked up the offending items. The two trudged upstairs, and I soon followed suit.

I found myself checking my watch more than I should have. Virgil was fine, I assured myself. There was nothing wrong, just a little delay; that was all. But still, he would have called me... I wrestled with the idea of calling him, but it wasn't that late yet. I would wait, and who knew? He might arrive in any second.

I changed into some comfortable clothes and lay back on the bed, propped up by the latest set of fat feather pillows my mother had bought me. She knew I couldn't sleep on anything else, and in her motherly way she decided to make sure that I actually got rest after our initial traumatic move to Andersonville was over, and then every few years after that. We first moved into the house about six months after Lucille passed on. I found that I couldn't live in the home we had bought together after we got married; there were too many memories of her, and I knew I couldn't move on with my life until I got out of there. So we sold up and moved to a different neighbourhood, into the house between the Simmons family and Tom and Sandy Belle, but it was not an easy task. All of the boys were young, and it took the help of Mother, Harrison, my sister Madison, and a platoon of cousins and old neighbours to relocate us. I was barely coping, but I clung to the idea that if we moved, I could move on. I was right.

I was torn from my comfortable reverie by a sudden loud cheer from the den; apparently, Scott and Gordon had teamed up, and were currently beating John and Alan into the ground. I shook my head and palmed my face. I wouldn't have objected to a little pre-movie marathon nap, but it was not to be. I picked up the televiewer remote and turned it on to the Mid West America News channel and sat back. The seven-thirty bulletin was just starting. Seven-thirty; where was Virgil?

The headlines began to roll by, and my question was answered.

"_A huge crash on the I-70 at the border of Colorado and Kansas brings traffic to a standstill._"

The I-70. That was the road Virgil's bus took from Denver to Topeka! I found myself yelling for Scott, and all four boys piled into my room, panicked and puzzled. I didn't know what to say.


	2. Chapter 2

"Dad! What's wrong?"

I pointed to the televiewer, and we watched helijet footage that showed a smoking pile-up of cars, buses, and trucks. Traffic was crawling around it; the scene was illuminated by aircraft spotlights that penetrated the dark winter night.

_"...here is reporter Stephen Nimmo live from the chaos. Stephen, what's the situation?"_

_"Well Martin, we've been told that over thirty vehicles were involved in the actual crash, which occurred at five-forty this afternoon, and was allegedly caused when a coach lost control and careered into the barrier in the middle of the interstate. An oil tanker ploughed into the bus, and the vehicles ignited, causing a huge explosion. In the resulting pandemonium, other vehicles collided with the wrecks, causing more fires. Traffic is backed up for miles…"_

I sat in shocked silence with my eyes fixed on the screen. Christ, what if Virgil had been on that bus? Thoughts whirled around my mind in a terrifying maelstrom; dread made me nauseous. Even if he hadn't been on the bus, what if he had been caught in the explosion, or the fires; what if his bus had crashed afterwards? What if he was…?

"We've got to call him." My voice sliced the silence of the room, and seemed to jolt the boys into action again. "He wasn't on that bus. Get his number." Inner turmoil, but outer calm: that was the way forward.

John reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone. He called up Virgil's number with nimble fingers and handed it to me. My face was still and calm, but my mind was aflame with panic. How could we know what had happened? All four boys clambered onto the bed as I reached for the landline phone and dialled Virgil's number. It seemed to take an age for the call to connect. When it finally did, I took it as a good sign. It meant that the phone was still intact. But it rang and rang, and no answer came. Dread twisted and churned in my stomach. Why didn't he answer?

_Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Ring, ring._

That haunting melody was with us for nearly two hours as Scott, and John took turns calling Virgil's cell phone, and I used my own to call the emergency hotline flashing at us from the TV screen as we watched events unfold. The blockage was slowly being cleared, and the flashing lights of emergency services vehicles clustered on the dark screen, as more rushed to the scene of panic and injury.

I did my best to keep cool. I was rational. Maybe Virgil's bus had not been in the crash at all. Perhaps it was just caught in the massive tailbacks that had formed. But why wasn't he answering his phone? I couldn't think of an answer other than, 'He's lost it', but it wouldn't have been like Virgil to be so careless. Fear and dread formed a heavy, icy weight on my head. _No. Not one of my sons,_ I found myself thinking. _Haven't we suffered enough?_

To this day, I'm proud of the way that Scott, John, and I handled things. They knew as well as I did that they had to keep as calm as possible for the younger two. At some point, John even took Gordon and Alan downstairs to make pancakes. Their Grandma made pancakes on the day they found out their mother had died. It was a troubling echo. I prayed that events would turn out differently.

Scott and I waited and waited; the phone rang and rang; we got no where on the hotline. I could see that Scott's knuckles were bone-white as he gripped the phone receiver, waiting with a blank face, hoping his brother would pick up. I scrubbed my cheek roughly with a hand and watched the televiewer through slatted fingers as the snarls of silver headlights snaked along the highway. Sirens moaned in the background.

I could never explain to you the absolute terror that I felt inside. I had to be calm for the boys, but worry and fear were overwhelming burdens, bearing down on me and pushing me to the brink. I was faced with losing my son, my artist, my _Virgil_, to a traffic disaster on the eve of one of the happiest days of the year. A tremendous anger rose up inside me; it was more than unfair. It was callous; it was horrendous; it was _evil_. I felt fury boil my blood, and my muscles swelled with rage. It wasn't right! I squeezed my eyes shut and my fingers dug into the bedspread. _It was not right_.

I opened my eyes as a quiet exhalation drew my attention. Scott had dropped his head to his chest, and my anger suddenly gave way. He held the receiver in a limp hand for a moment, closing his eyes, as if trying to forget for a moment, or perhaps remembering happier times. I placed a hand on his shoulder; I shared the pain he was feeling. He looked up, and for a tiny moment, I could a young boy again, wanting the reassurance that only his daddy could give. But the vision was cleared as I blinked, and Scott brought a strong hand up to rest briefly on mine. He was determined.

"He's fine dad. I know it." I didn't know whether he said that for my benefit or for his own, but I certainly took comfort from it.

Our hope and determination seemed suddenly renewed. We were refreshed and strong once more. I took up the receiver and dialled the number, and the waiting began again.

Eventually John, Alan and Gordon returned. Alan fell asleep in spite of his determination to stay awake. He was back to back with John, who was pretending to watch the televiewer. I could tell he was staring into space. When Scott took the phone again, I picked Alan up and carried him -- at great effort, because the twelve year old was _not_ light -- to his room. I pulled off his shoes and settled him under the covers. With a gentle hand I smoothed back the hair from his forehead and stayed for a moment, before quietly heading back to my bedroom.

The four of us sat on the bed together, mostly in silence, for what seemed like an age. I knew it was heading towards midnight, and I was still getting nowhere with the hotline -- just angry. Scott replaced the receiver again and sat still for a moment. The dull warble of the MWAN broadcast was the only noise. We were still, and I hoped for a miracle. _Please let my son be all right_. Scott glanced at me, his determination wearing thin again. I saw John and Gordon share a worried look. My heart began to sink once more. What hope was there?

A bolt of electric surprise shot through us all, and we jumped as the shrill sound of the phone ringing filled the stillness. I stared at it for a moment, stupefied. Suddenly I leapt across the bed, seized the receiver and pulled it to my ear.

"Hello? Hello? Who is this?" My voice was urgent, with an edge of hysteria. _Please God let it be Virgil!_

My heart was thumping so strongly I could feel it pulsing though my whole body, in my fingers and toes, up my spine and throughout my head. I held the phone in a death grip as I hoped, prayed, pleaded that I would be granted just _one_ miracle. The atmosphere of the room was tense. Three sets of pleading eyes were on me, and the crushing burden of worry and helplessness threatened to collapse all hope in my mind.

The phone went dead. I sat still for a few moments, not quite knowing what to do, before slamming the handset back down and sitting up again. The boys sat with expressions of confusion and despair, and they did not know how to react to me.

"What was that all about?" Scott asked.

"It was a prank call." I ground the words out.

How dare someone do this to us! It was an abomination before all mankind. Of course, a tiny, rational voice in my mind told me that the caller could never have known what we were going through, but I did not want to listen.

"I can't believe it." John said, his hands pressed over his eyes. "I thought... I thought maybe..."

The shrill ringing of the phone, once again assaulting our minds, cut off my reply. This time all four of us dove for the phone, but I got there first. I wrenched it to my ear and demanded the name of the caller. I swore that if it were another prank call, I would hunt whomever it was down and cut out their heart.

An elated laugh came from the other end of the line, followed by a yell of something I didn't quite catch. I could hear other voices, and a sudden outburst of cheers went up. But the sounds were muffled, as if they were behind glass. The voice was excited and thankful as it greeted me.

"What a way to greet you own son! Dad, it's me, it's Virgil!"

The relief I felt almost made me weep. I closed my eyes and whispered, _Thank God_, as my son's voice rang loud and clear down the line. He was all right! He was _alive_! Joy and elation threw off the heavy burden of worry and doubt, and I laughed out loud, sounding manic, but I didn't care. Virgil was alive!

"Virgil! Son, are you all right? Tell me, son, where the _hell_ are you?"

I saw Scott, John, and Gordon stare at each other, and then at me, before the room exploded with cheering and whoops of relief and delight. The commotion brought Alan running back to the room, with mussed hair and wide eyes, not quite awake yet, and he was immediately engulfed in a brotherly football tackle of joy.

"I'm fine, Dad," Virgil said. "Don't worry. I'm so sorry I didn't get back to you before now. That was me trying to get though before, but the phone went crazy. I'm in a phone booth at a truck stop. Our bus was caught in the huge snarl just after the actual crash. We were evacuated in case there was another explosion. I've spent most of the last few hours in one of the holding tents. None of us were able to get help to get word out to our families. We're on our way back to campus now on another bus; it's easier than trying to get to Topeka."

"Thank God you're all right," I said. "We've been trying to get through to you."

"My phone was in my bag, and I had to leave it on the bus. I didn't have any credit, anyway. Jeez, I'm so sorry Dad."

"None of that, Virgil," I said. "We're just glad you're safe." Something occurred to me. "Son, why was your bus at the Kansas-Colorado border at five-forty? You should have been well into Kansas by then."

"We didn't leave until really late; something about the bus's fuel, we were told. I was running late, but I couldn't call because I had no call time. I was waiting until we stopped after the border to phone you." There was a pause, and I heard someone else's' voice for a second. "I'm going to have to go, Dad. There's a huge queue behind me. I'll hopefully be home tomorrow. I'll let you know the plans."

"Okay, Virgil." I didn't know what to say. "I'm so glad you're safe. Take care, son. Call us later."

"Sure thing."

"Alright, son."

"And Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Next time, I'm taking a plane!"

I barked out a laugh, and we bid each other farewell. The phone line went dead, and I stopped for a moment, soaking the events in as the flat dial tone replaced Virgil's voice. After so many hours of agonizing wait, it was over. Virgil was safe. I realized that I was sprawled across the bed, spread-eagled, due to my leap for the phone, and I couldn't help but chuckle. I replaced the receiver and sat up. My sons watched.

"He's fine." I said calmly.

I let out a violent whoop of joy, and my sons, all four boys, attacked me with another football tackle. We were a tangled mess of limbs and ecstatic faces, and I let out another boisterous cheer. I was so happy, so thankful, so _relieved_, that all my boys were, once again, just fine.


End file.
